


ever-present, phantom thing (my slave, my comrade and my king)

by sunANDdust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Beating, Bullying, Child Neglect, Demon!Dean, Demonic Possession, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lonely Sam Winchester, Other, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunANDdust/pseuds/sunANDdust
Summary: Sam grows up piss-poor, constantly moving towns with his alcoholic father who never got over his wife's death.It is a lonely life but when dark things come for him, Sam finds out he's never truly been alone.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester & Original Character(s), Sam Winchester/Original Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Sam is six years old when he feels the presence for the first time. He went to the playground of the local park – alone, as usual – but the sight of all the other children playing with their siblings, their parents pushing them on the swings, just made him realise once again how badly he wishes that his father was home more often. So he sits on the side for a while, goes to the slide once, twice. He would love to play on the swings but he has no one to push him so he goes back to his spot on the big rock next to the ping-pong tables and watches. The other children would probably laugh at his meagre attempts to push himself anyway, and that is the last thing he wants. It is a small town. Sam knows most of the children from school and, well, he already earned his reputation of being the new weird kid, he doesn't have to add the loser who cannot push himself on the swings to that.

Suddenly, there is a woman standing next to him, probably one of the moms, smiling. She has huge front teeth bleached scarily white and her eyes are of a very light blue. The woman looks like a ghost and Sam is frozen in his spot, staring up at her with her smile and teeth and eyes so scary.

“Well, hello there, young man.” Her voice is deep, too deep, not suiting her at all. “Are you all alone around here? Where are your parents? Are you lost?”

Oh God.

Sam gets up from the rock, turns around slowly and starts walking away. He knows that all the eyes of the playground are on him now but he cannot change a thing about it. Adults asking questions about absent parents are not good, that he knows already at his six years. Worried small-town parents with too white teeth asking about children playing all alone are not good. Seeming lost is not good. Sam's father drilled the protocol of proper reaction to such a situation into his head since he can remember. Worried neighbours, curious parents – not good. It means talk and talk will lead to calls made, which will lead to child service and even more questions. It means that he will be taken away from his Dad without ever seeing him again.

The woman gasps in surprise. Small-town moms are not used to children not answering questions and Sam knows that, as he walks away, it will make him appear even stranger. But the alternative is worse. So he walks away, the woman calling after him before he breaks into a run.

He runs until the playground is out of sight, then he falls back into a slower but stiff walk. Sam feels his eyes burning. He won't play at the playground again and he will have to tell his dad about what happened tonight when he returns from his construction job. His eyes burn even more and his stomach hurts from hunger. If he wasn't sure that another adult would stop immediately and bother him, Sam would gladly just sit down on the ground and cry but of course he cannot do that.

He thinks of all the smiling children at the playground and his stomach hurts a little more. It becomes even worse as soon as he closes the door of their crappy rented house – it is more of a dump if someone would ask him – behind himself and locks it. It is so quiet in the living room, only with an old, smelly couch, a tiny TV and a rickety table. Two bedrooms, one tiny bathroom and a sorry excuse for a kitchen attached to the living room.

Sam doesn't even make it to the couch before he can't help himself and starts crying. He hears himself sob so loudly that he's almost embarrassed of himself, scared that someone might hear. Like his dad who falls into a fit whenever Sam cries, breath whiskey rough.

_You know who whines? Babies. Stop the bawling right now or I'll give you something to bawl about._

His dad never lay a finger on him, not even once. And even if Sam cries only harder the man usually curses under his breath and throws the doors on his way to the bedroom.

But his dad is not here and no sound of doors shakes the house. Sam almost wished it was so.

That is the moment he feels it.

He lifts his head from the arms he slung around it and looks up. There is no one around obviously but the feeling that someone is watching him gets only stronger. Sam frowns through his tears. It feels like someone is sitting on the couch, watching him silently but at the same time it's like a gentle pressure behind his eyes, noticeable but not hurting. And then it moves, lazily, a cat rolling onto its back with a purr before lying still again.

Sam remains motionless, staring at the couch as if someone or something would appear on its dirty-green cover but nothing happens. The presence, the strange feeling of something moving around him – and in him – is gone, and the space behind his eyes feels hollow and dry. No tears. Sam notices that he stopped crying, tear stains clinging uncomfortably to his cheeks.

He waits a moment longer before getting up to wash the drying salt from his skin. A look in the mirror shows that he looks just as he did this morning, nothing has changed and Sam doesn't know why he is so surprised by that. There is a sensation on the back of his head like a hand caressing over his hair down to his neck where it gives a rolling movement, making the baby hairs rising in a shiver. He runs into his room, hides under his duvet and does not come out sooner than the moment he hears his father's keys in the lock of the front door.

Mary Winchester died in a house fire when Sam was six months old. His father barely made it out with the baby in his arms and no chance to help Mary. Not even her bones remained to be found and buried so John Winchester went mad before an empty grave. Sam once overheard his Uncle Bobby saying that his dad was never the same again, that he broke in half and Sam wondered if one half died with his mom and, if that was the case, if it was the good half. Because the other one, riding in the driver seat next to him at the moment, is more often drunk than sober and smells of cheap soap mixed with engine oil. John lost his job – again, it is already the second this month – and they are moving to another town, another state.

Sam does no longer ask about their destination, he just looks out of the window. His usual place in the back seat of the Impala is not too bad, with a lot of space all too himself but his dad does not allow him to ride shotgun very often. The sight through the front window makes his heart almost light and he feels like a man although he has to lift his chin to look over the dashboard. He feels grown up and important with his dad next to him in the front seat, working on his speech he prepared. He will be seven in one month, he will be a man soon and then his dad won't have to work so hard because Sam will find a job and there will be more money. A better house, more food and maybe less whiskey for his father although he could probably afford the more expensive brands he'd seen on the top shelves of supermarkets. More than once he opens his mouth but stops in the last second, not a word coming over his lips. Sam is afraid that his dad will laugh or yell, and he wants neither the one nor the other. So he remains silent.

It is a good day. The road is dry and Sam even got the crackers he loves so much when they stopped to refuel the car and get some snacks. His dad smiles at him and even lifts him up into his arms.

“We will be there soon, it's not much longer.” he says and smiles a little more. The smile Sam offers in return is just the tiniest bit hesitant and his dad does not notice. Although his heart is running a marathon with joy, Sam does not dare to hug him back.

The rest of the drive is spent with his crackers, feeling like a king. The purring sound in the back of his mind drowns in the rumble of the engine.

The new town is tiny and dirty and John gets a job at a small furniture warehouse, working double shifts. It pays the rent and for some groceries, that's it. Sam's shoes are hurting his toes, too small for his feet but there is no chance he will get new ones. He is looking down at said hurting toes in too small shoes when he is introduced to his new classmates who are already whispering about him, taking in his shaggy hair and thinning jeans with critical eyes. But they stay in town and the critical glances soon lose themselves to more interesting things. Sam turns eight, nine, ten, the longest they ever stayed in one place. It is hot in the south but his dad also works as a farmhand in summer anyway. It's the first time Sam has something that is remotely close to a friend, Anni, who wears clothes just as shabby as his and never makes fun of him.

“Are you coming to the pond today?” she asks during lunch, sharing Sam's sandwich. Her eyes are black and she has this hungry expression in them so Sam leaves the bigger half and some of his own on his plate. His stomach groans but he ignores it.

“No. My dad wants me to help out at the farm. He said they could need any hand and I can keep the tip.”

Anni rolls her eyes like a grown-up. “Suit yourself, Winchester.”

The next day at lunch, Sam unpacks two apples, two thick sandwiches and a chocolate bar for each of them. Anni's hungry eyes widen before she wolfs her share down without leaving Sam's lunch out of her sight. He never tells her that he bought it from the money he earned, spending it to the last cent.

In school, he sits in the back and keeps silent. Anni always sits in the front right corner but he does not mind. Sam aces his maths test, the history quiz and his English teacher gives him a smile when handing back the paper he wrote on North American folklore. The fat red A+ on the top makes his heart beat faster and even dims the growing pains in his legs to a dull throb. This paper was important and Sam spent a long time on it, calling his Uncle Bobby every half hour because he needed information on _that_ urban legend and _these_ strange tracks found in Montana in 1934. The old man had grumbled and mumbled for a while before spending hours on the research to help Sam, barking good-naturedly because _if that paper's so dang important I better got these pages smokin'._ In the end he wrote way more than he needed to but it did not feel like homework. Sam hadn't had that much fun in a long time, talking to Bobby a lot – for an owner of a salvage yard this man certainly owns a huge library of strange books – and even spending some time with his dad over it.

Sam walks home with a spring to his step and the pat on the shoulder his father gives him feels like Christmas and birthday in one. Sam turns eleven and when he comes down for breakfast there are five books on the table waiting for him. They are second hand and beat up but his, and he hugs his father before sweeping them into his arms and running up the stairs to his room again. He does not eat breakfast that day. _Moby Dick_ , _Alice in Wonderland_ , _Brothers Grimm's Fairy Tales_ , _The Time Machine_ and _Macbeth_. About the latter he learns, that actors never speak the name out loud for it means bad luck. After he is done reading the play, Sam's mind is in an uproar, confused, and completely shaken to the core. It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night – he read it in one sitting – and Sam is almost there when he thinks he hears a voice saying 'Macbeth'.

Sam is twelve years old when he feels the presence again. It is also the first time he hears the voice when everything goes to shit.

“You told me we could stay! You promised! You _promised_!” Sam's voice is almost snapping and ripping with the volume and the latest breaking session. He sounds like an angry frog to his own ears and it makes him even more furious. The door is rattling but he locked it, pushing his old tiny bookshelf in front of it so his father cannot enter. _This is not happening, it_ cannot _be happening!_ John remains surprisingly calm and his voice is more gritty than angry as if he really feels ashamed of what he is going to do to Sam. Again.

“I know what I said but Mr Graham is selling the place – no warehouse, no job. It is not my fault, damn it.”

Standing in the middle of his room, Sam is shaking all over with hot and cold waves. The door handle rattles again but there is no way the closet is going to move. “You're lying.” His own voice has calmed down, yelling hurts his developing throat too much and he feels numb, tired. His stomach is rolling.

“You're lying, dad.”

“No, 'm not.” the man at the door claims and there it is – the tilt in his voice, his pronunciation. John Winchester is not one for fancy words or watching his language but this is what Sam has been drilled to look for since he was tiny. John Winchester is drunk.

“I can hear it, you know?” The man on the other side of the door remains silent. “You're drunk again. Dad, you promised me you stopped.” Selling the warehouse his ass. Mr Graham is a good man, a good business man and has been more than patient with drunk Mr Winchester who lost his wife and tried to raise his son all by himself, little Sammy who is so nice and humble and such a good kid. But the booze...

“Let me guess, you showed up drunk for the umpteenth time and he kicked you out for good. Don't blame it on him, dad, don't you dare.”

The door handle stopped rattling and Sam hears the stairs squeak, his dad leaving and walking downstairs – probably to drown his sorrow over the argument in the depth of a whiskey bottle. Following an impulse, Sam picks up the lamp from his night stand and throws it against the wall. Albeit it doesn't solve anything, his fist itching just for something more to break. He cannot help the angry sob escaping his mouth, sounding like he's being squashed. He sits down on his bed and hides his face behind his hands, trying to calm but it is just getting worse.

Why, why does this have to happen? Why did his dad have to drink again? He had a home for the first time – or at least a place closest to one that he ever knew – he had a friend, good marks, John was doing so  _ good _ . And now moving again. Sam wants to punish his dad.

His hands sink from his face and he is staring into space.

Last year a girl from his school, a few years older than him, killed herself in the girls bathroom with sleeping pills and a medical alcohol she smuggled into the building by filling it into a plastic bottle. Obviously her suicide note mentioned how happy her parents must have been now that she was gone, one less nuisance as her father had called her over and over again. One less problem. 

He wants to do the same, wants to drink something down and then – well, the next part is tricky. He would need to be there some way, like a ghost staying behind. Witnessing his father finding his body, crying over it, pulling his hair out over it for not being a better father, for not  _ giving a fuck _ . Yeah, that's what he should do. Sam does not want to move again and leave everything behind, he won't, his father cannot make him. He gets up from his bed and pushes the bookshelf aside, stepping into the hallway. Downstairs is eerily quiet. He locks himself in the bathroom and opens the cupboard. Little medicine packages and bottles full of pills greet him, pain killers sold under the table. He doesn't know why they have so much of the stuff but this goes better than he hoped it would. Deciding on one of them – Sam has never heard of this particular brand before – he also takes the cold medicine to add to it. Alcohol is alcohol, no matter if it is consumed in the form of whiskey or this artificially fruity flavoured shit. Sam takes a deep breath and has to sit down on the rim of the tub. He opens the pill bottle, pouring some of them into his hand, stares at them. Then pours until the small glass bottle is empty. And stares a little more.

He's gonna do this. He's really gonna do this.

_You don't wanna do this, kiddo._

Sam starts so hard that the pills end up all over the place with the shattered glass container on the floor. He looks around frantically, searching for someone but there's nobody there. His stomach rumbles but it sounds and feels like a chuckle – like somebody else's chuckle. Getting up from the tub he tiptoes around the shards on the floor, breath more gasps than actual oxygen intake. A roll, a lazy roll deep in his guts spreading the feeling of someone turning to sleep some more when realising upon waking that it is not yet time to get up in the morning.

_Anakin, stop panicking._

With a quiet whimper, Sam stumbles back until he hits the door and sinks to his butt. He pushes his hair back from his eyes, running his hands through it until it's certainly a mess. Sam's hyperventilating.

_Jeez, calm down. You gonna pass out if you don't keep it down, eh?_

“What's happening? Who is this? Where  _ are  _ you?!” 

A small touch on his head, like fingertips being pushed carefully into his scalp, not to leave red marks behind but to calm. He's being patted, Sam realises. Like a dog. A dog being patted by an invisible man.

For the person is male and invisible, the voice deep and raspy. Or Sam's losing his mind.

“I am losing my mind.” Sam voices the thought, close to tears or yelling or maybe both. His hands shake.

_ Not really, champ. You're not crazy.  _ A smug grin appears before his mind's eye.  _ I would have noticed, trust me. I'm inside your grapefruit, Sammy, and it is damn scary tidy up here. _

There is the sensation on his neck again and he shivers. This time the fingers feel sharper, nails digging in, a threat and a promise.  _ Which is why I don't understand why you wanna do this. It's not gonna happen, dude.  _

Sam moves before he can make the conscious decision to move and scrabbles for a handful of the pills. He knows that this dose might not kill him but his mind is too blurry to actually care – he just wants to be gone. Knocked out into sweet, blissful darkness for a while. Ideally forever.

Yes, forever, why not?

He raises his hand to his face, ready to swallow the pills, when an invisible power pushes down on it and keeps it just out of reach. When Sam sticks out his tongue, the tip touched his thumb but he cannot move.

_As I said, not gonna happen._

That's the final straw. The skin on his arm holding the pills feels stretched too tight over a foreign bone, a strangers sinews and muscles rippling underneath. Strangers blood pulsing in his veins. It's inside him. He babbles words like a mantra. “IaminsaneIaminsaneIaminsaneIam-”

That moment his mind and body finally decide that 'nah, we're outta here' and he feels that he is slowly passing out. His body slips to the side along the door, the pills falling from his hand and rolling soundlessly across the tiles while a man's voice calls _What the shit, Winchester?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from 'Pleade for Me' by Emily Bronte


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up, Sam is still on the bathroom floor surrounded by the pills. Some of them have dissolved into pinkish foam since they came in contact with the spilled cold medicine. This could have been in his stomach right now, knocking the life out of him. Sam is not sure if he regrets not taking them.

Then everything comes back to him like a slap. His suicide attempt – there is no point in sugar-coating the truth – and the voice. The invisible man. For a moment longer Sam remains lying quietly on the floor, listening to the silence. But there is nothing.

Eventually he sits up, rubbing his numb shoulder to get the blood circulation going again. There is no explanation for what happened. If it happened. He snorts out a sarcastic chuckle at himself and his thoughts. Of course it did _not_ happen. It must have been the mental stress, the emotional uproar, a nervous breakdown. With shaking hands he starts to clean up the mess he made, the last thing he wants is his father finding the remnants of his attempt. Sam doesn't know how the man would react to that and he's definitely not keen on finding out. So he picks up all the pills, mops up the sticky puddle and puts the medicine containers piling on the sink back into the cupboard. One last time he looks around to make sure that no trace of his activities remain, then he unlocks the doors as quietly as possible.

Silence.

Sam steps into the hallways and carefully makes his way down the stairs. A look at the clock over the kitchenette tells him that he was unconscious for quite some time. Obviously his breakdown took longer than he expected.

Dad is on the couch, sprawled over it with one arm squished awkwardly between his torso and the backrest. There is an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table, flanked by two beer bottles. The man snores loudly, scratching his chin with the other hand that is not trapped in the cushion.

The sight is so iconic, Sam does not even know what it makes him feel. He has seen this a lot, his fists clench nevertheless. If he'd been successful, if he'd actually swallowed the pills – his father would not have found out until the next day, hell, perhaps until the next day's afternoon. Who knows. And that's an optimistic time frame. Probably he would have left for the day 'to clear is head' and discover his dead son even later, not bothering to check if Sam had gone to school as he's supposed to.

“Are you even real?” he whispers to himself, unable to keep it in. Without another glance for his father, Sam walks up the stairs to his room, closes the door and sits down on his bed. It is four in the afternoon but he lies down fully dressed and falls asleep. He does not wake up in time for dinner and sleeps through the night. The following day, he wakes up at nine in the morning to his father knocking on his door. A sheepish looking John Winchester sticks his head through the tiny gap between the frame and the door and tells him to pack his stuff, he's already called school to let them know about their move. Be ready by eleven.

Everything feels dead to Sam. Mechanically he starts to roll his clothes into bundles, piles a few books and the thick battered folder containing the entirety of his schoolwork, and leaves before he can think too closely about it. Outside, his dad is waiting in the car with the door open, offering the passenger seat like a reward. Wordlessly Sam pushes it closed, throws his duffel bag into the back seat and crawls after it. He lies down, pillowing his head on the rough fabric and closes his eyes so he does not have to see his father watching him in the rear-view mirror.

By eleven they are on the highway and Sam sleeps, wakes up to drink some water and goes back to sleep. He wonders if his dad knows that today is the day he's lost his son.

After five months of driving aimlessly from one state to another, they end up in Mississippi. The town is on the nicer side, close to the Mississippi River. It is neither big nor small but has enough steeples that it make Sam dizzy. It is two weeks before his thirteenth birthday and he likes to compare himself to an old cow that is tired of rumination. He goes to a new school, again, gets through the awkward first day, again, reads the same books, again, and has to write the same essays on _Romeo and Juliet_. Again.

Nothing has changed. Sam has learned to keep some things to himself in order to not let his dad know that, in fact, _everything_ has changed.

On his son's thirteenth birthday, John Winchester goes to work – he is working for security at a mall with a semi-decent pay – and heads out to a bar with his colleagues afterwards. Around midnight he starts a fight, takes a hit and is collected by two officers to spend the night in the local drying-out cell. In the morning he is allowed to leave without further consequences, goes home like a dog kicked one too many times and falls into bed. And Sam just does not care anymore where he used to care too much.

For the past five months it's been just like that. They barely talk and Sam does no longer protest against their vagabond life. At night he lies awake, listens to his dad's bawling and crying about his dead wife, wondering when and where he missed the last possible exit before turning the corner into Shit Avenue.

Vincent Tarasov is a year older than Sam and plainly dumb as a rock. Throughout the past two years, Sam has grown like a sprout and at a speed that it made him nauseous from time to time. And although Sam has an advantage of at least three inches in height over him, the dude makes it up with being at least twice as wide. Sixteen years old brawn and no brain – a dangerous combination as Sam finds out that fateful day.

He's just turned around the corner to go home after school but he already finds himself getting shoved into a wire fence, his backpack on the floor and a muscular forearm on his throat. One of the poles presses uncomfortably into his back.

“Having a death wish, Winchester?” the boy snarls roughly, pushing his face into Sam's. His breath smells of tobacco gone bad and Sam has a hard time not to make a face. Vincent is accompanied by two of his friends – his lackeys, actually, he never shows up anywhere without these two – baring his teeth which are bleached as hell. What is it with people and their bleached teeth always coming after Sam, that he'd like to know. He is also mighty confused, tries to stay calm but being face to face with so much density – he just cannot keep some sarcastic snideness from stealing into his words.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Save the posh claptrap, you fag. You think I don't know it was you?”

Sam blinks at him for he has no idea what Vincent is talking about. Indeed, down to the present day the both of them barely exchanged a word as Sam might have been an outsider but not a target of bullies. He trains his face into the grim expression he learned from his father. The John Winchester scowl never fails.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Tarasov, but whatever it is, it wasn't me-”

“Bullshit!” With a sharp snap Vincent's fist hits the pole behind Sam's back and looks like that nonsensical demonstration of power hurt him more than it actually intimidates Sam. Still, it was quite a hit as the vibrations running through the object show and a bad feeling starts to rise in the pit of his stomach.

“You're the rat who told Mr Connor that I cheated on that history test.”

This time Sam can't hide his astonishment, blinks at Vincent in disbelief. “Tarasov, we're not even in the same history class” he tries, “for God's sake, we're not even in the same year! How should I've even known that you cheated?”

“You saw me at my locker that day. Were creeping around the halls during class like you usually do and you spied on me when I got my notes. And thanks to you the bastard let me fail, notice straight to my parents!”

“I went to the bathroom, you moron. I had no idea what you were doing there and I definitely did not tell anyone-”

“Shut the fuck up!” The atmosphere around them changes from one second to another. Vincent Tarasov is done with words, red in the face and with that brain-dead expression he gets before beating up some poor dude. Unfortunately, though, the poor dude of the day appears to be Sam himself. Adrenaline begins to pour into his blood, making his heart race. He's had his fair share of quarrels and minor beatings but three against one – this won't end pretty.

The first hit meets him in the stomach, almost causing him to double over with a choking groan, the next makes the skin on his cheekbone burst open. Following his instincts he wraps his arms around his head in order to protect it from further blows but his assailant has already moved on from that. The other two guys jump in, kicking him in the chins until his legs give way and he falls to the ground. A sharp hot pain shoots from an especially nasty blow to his abdomen and makes him groan in pain and fear. He feels hot blood dripping down his face and the way they are aiming at the most vulnerable spots while calling him any sorts of names, he begins to fear they might not stop. Oh God, they are going to beat him to death-

Suddenly, a hot shiver runs down his back and his skin – he remembers this feeling from somewhere, like his skin is too thin and tautens over new structure covering his own bones. Its such a foreign feeling that it almost makes him forget how much he hurts all over. He gasps, but not from pain, when there is a _second person in his head_. It is the first thought that crosses his mind when, with a lazy rolling sensation, the other presence pushes forward and it feels strange enough that he'd start screaming if not for the feet kicking the air out of his lungs.

_Huh, never took you for the just-roll-over type, kiddo. But here we are._

Sam has never been so scared in his life, his fear and shock catching up with him and the three just don't stop.

“Help-” It's a weak whimper that earns him taunting laughs from his attackers but Sam is too far gone to even care. “Please, _help-”_

_I've got you._

The huge pulse of foreign power running through his veins almost causes Sam to black out, it just seems too big for his body that already feels like it's coming apart at the seams. _Sorry. I sometimes forget how-_ His fist rises on its own account, smashing into one of Tarasov's lackeys' left kneecap. The boy screams although the force was not enough to break it. Hurts like a bitch, though. His foot snaps up, kicking the same spot for good measure and the guy goes down with another scream. Tarasov and the other guy need a moment to realise that something has changed about the situation but when they do it's already too late.

Pushing himself up from the asphalt, Sam blocks Tarasov's next blow, using his other hand to land one right into his stupid face. For someone who's used to handing out the beating Tarasov goes down embarrassingly quick, dropping like a bag of wet sand. The last one doesn't give up so easily, dodging two of Sam's kicks and blows, landing one against Sam's ribs before an angry snarl resonates in Sam's head and one hand snaps forward inhumanly fast to wrap around the guy's throat. Surely mirroring the dude's astonished facial expression, he lifts him up a few inches from the ground before – with more force than he ever thought could live in his too long, too thin limb – throws him to the ground.

For a few seconds, Sam just stops and stares. His three assailants are on the ground before him, bruised and bleeding a bit but definitely conscious judging by their moaning and groaning. He doesn't know what to do – hell, he's not even sure what just happened. Obviously the three will have to swallow some of their ego and find a nice excuse for their battered state but Sam's sure they are not seriously hurt so he picks up his backpack with shaking hands. “Next time you might want to pick a fairer fight, Tarasov.” he says, voice steady and cool. Still his legs are like jelly as he moves away from the scene, half paralysed with fear, confusion and pain that is now spreading all over his body. Here he is and thought, once upon a time, that growing pains were the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than he first but I still hope you enjoyed reading. Let me know what you think! :)


	3. Chapter 3

The walk back home is ridiculously uneventful considering the critical situation Sam's been in just a few minutes prior. His mind is running a marathon as he stumbles down the street, praying that none of their neighbours will see him like this and make a fuss. Sam doesn't stop until he's in their one bathroom upstairs, his backpack on the floor and frantically washing his face with cold water. It stings in the busted skin across his cheekbone but the pain is kind of settling, bringing him back down to earth. He takes a deep breath, then looks up into the mirror, desperate.

“Okay” he whispers, “tell me what is going on. _Please_ , tell me that actually happened.”

His reflection just stares back at him no matter how intently he looks at it. There is no voice, no burst of power and his skin feels like his own – as if all of this craziness never happened.

Frustrated, he bares his teeth. “Come on!” he yells at the mirror, trying to provoke a reaction. There has to be something, there simply _has to be_. Another scream wrests from his throat, wordless, and his voice breaks towards the end as if it's boding what Sam's close to as well. Tears of emotional overload begin to blur his vision and he knows that he's so, so close to a mental breakdown.

“Please” he tries again, sounding defeated to his own ears,“there is just so much a person can stand before they take to the streets and start screaming.”

_Jeez, dramatic much?_

And there it is. Sam can't help it, he starts terribly although he should have been prepared for this. The familiar motion of a body rolling over lazily, purring contently, although this time it is different. It's followed by a strange movement skywards making his shoulders and the top of his head tickle. Like someone stretching the muscles after a long sleep.

Sam opens his mouth, closes it again, just to feel his jaw drop a little. “You-” But the words forsake him. There is silence but not emptiness, like an _actual_ conversational partner waiting for the other to continue. Clearing his throat Sam finally manages to get out the words that burn on his tongue. “You are real.” He has to clear his throat again as he feels scratchy bile rise up his oesophagus. “I-I mean, it was not a dream, it really happened. Even back then when I tried to take those pills. There was actually-” _Someone stopping you from doing something enormously stupid?_

Sam nods, frantically, still staring at himself in the mirror. When he hears the voice again, he notices that his lips do not move – it is all in his head.

 _Well, of course I am. Told you so before, kiddo._ The voice sounds almost amused as it is confronted with Sam's incredulous gaping. However, it takes on a patronising tone when one of Sam's hands wipes nervously over his face and comes away sticky with drying blood. _You better get cleaned up and get a little shut-eye. Took some nasty beating there._

It's the last thing Sam thinks about at the moment, still bursting with questions, confusion and the likely danger of a lurking breakdown. Another thing that makes him open his eyes a little more – like a child that tries to stay awake – is the fear of falling asleep and waking up and losing this, the memory of the proof that this is _real._ A pointless endeavour as it seems. Something soft caresses his mind, like talons made of smoke that apply just the right amount of scratching sensation to be undeniably good. From one moment to another his limbs are feeling heavy with exhaustion no matter how much he tries to fight it. “But – no” he protests weakly, “I don't want to-”

 _But me no buts_. Sam's body moves of its own accord and it doesn't even freak him out any longer. Truth be told, his muddled brain points out, he'd probably be a bloody pulp on the asphalt by now if not for the full-on body control interfering. The voice responds with an affirmative humming sound as it leads Sam to his room and makes him climb into bed. His eyes are barely open now and although he still wants to protest, Sam just doesn't have it in him at the moment. Sleep, sleep sounds nice. Before he can utter another word, Sam's out like a light.

When he wakes up the digital alarm clock's glowing numbers tell him that it's half past one in the morning. His dad is probably at work so nobody's there to wake him for dinner. Not that it matters.

Opening his eyes and staring at the dark ceiling of his room, Sam takes a deep breath.

“Are you still there?” he murmurs into the nightly silence and this time he does not fret. With his body still relaxed from sleep Sam's more ready than ever to actually take on what's taking place. At night, everything seems possible.

This time something like the a sarcastic rolling of eyes precedes the voice. _Starting to get clingy, are we?_ it murmurs. But Sam won't let himself be deterred by its words or Southern drawl – how come he never noticed that before? Touching a hand to his forehead he tries to approach this as rational as possible. There's a male voice speaking to him in his head, an incorporeal individual that is able to take complete control over his physical body and provide it with strength and abilities that it usually does not possess. The voice's commenting remark of _No shit, Sherlock!_ almost makes him lose his train of thoughts. But Sam's been a brainiac his whole life – sometimes the only thing that kept him sane, he thinks – and the sudden discovery that he's been sharing his head with another consciousness for years won't change that. He bites his lip in an attempt to stay calm. It _won't_ change anything.

Taking a deep breath, Sam starts with the easiest and most obvious question. “Who are you?”

The voice chuckles and is that a streak of uneasiness resonating through it?

 _Don't worry your pretty head over that. I made sure you won't be crawling in pain tomorrow and now you should get back to-_ “No!” Following an impulse, Sam sits up in his bed as if it could keep the voice there with him. “You're _not_ disappearing again, not without giving me some answers. The last time you just vanished I thought I made you up. So don't – don't even _think_ about skipping out on me!” He realises that he's literally yelling at an empty room, thank you very much, he just doesn't care. The voice sighs, sounding defensive. _Look, I don't want any trouble, kiddo._

“Then start by telling me who you are!”

Another exasperated sigh swooshes through his brain like a soft breeze. _Who is but the form following the function of what. And what I am is a-_

For a second, Sam simply gapes. “Did – Did you seriously just quote _V for Vendetta_?” He's not sure if he should rather laugh or yell.

The male voice groans in annoyance. _Who I am can't be explained without telling you what I am and you wouldn't believe me. Trust me on this one._

“Try me.” Sam hisses and crosses his arms in front of his chest. But his other part – when did Sam even start thinking of it as such? – remains silent as if contemplating what lie to tell, weighing its words. That confuses Sam even more.

“I am not insane” he whispers, “you are real. I couldn't have done what I did yesterday just by making it up. This power you gave me, you're not a product of my imagination.”

 _No, 'm not._ it confirms quite sullenly _._ Then, after another break filled with silence, it gives another groan. It sounds final.

_Dean._

“What?”

_The name's Dean, okay?_

Sam's first reaction is, that this name doesn't fit at all. The second, that he's actually no idea how to determine if a name does or doesn't suit an invisible voice. “Dean.” He speaks the name quietly, carefully. Sam can't help the nervous chuckle. “Wow, this is all so...weird. “ He clears his throat and pushes some of his sweaty hair out of his forehead. The voice – no, Dean – offers a little chuckle himself. _Yeah, tell me 'bout it._

“So, was that so complicated?”

Again, Dean remains silent for a moment but when he starts talking, he sounds a little more hesitant. _Okay, I don't – what if I – when you freak out remember that you asked for this, kiddo, alright? Told you beforehand._

Sam only nods, waiting. _Great. Right. You're a smart kid, aren't ya? You know that there are things out there that...can't stay on their own. They need something or someone to attach themselves to in order to surv- no, that's not the right word._ Sam frowns. “Like uh- you mean like a parasite needing a host?” _No, no! Crap, no, not a parasite, what the hell, man?!_ Deans words just confuse him even more so he shrugs his shoulders. “You're not making sense, really. I am just-”

 _Right, let me try something else. Think a big, big fish. Like real big. And his scales are covered in little assholes living off him, weakening him._ Those _are parasites. But there are those other fish, too. Nice fellas ,not as big and they, on the other hand, feed on those fuckers stuck to the big one. So they attach themselves and keep big F clean while they don't go hungry and are protected from nasty motherfuckers._ The words keep coming, sounding almost excited as they slowly begin to make sense.

“You're talking about a symbiosis.”

_Yes! Symbiosis, thank you, champ. Symbiosis._

Again, his fingertips find his forehead, touching it as if he could feel Dean's consciousness flittering around behind it. “So, in other words” he starts, carefully, “I am the big fish and you are the little one taking care while I keep you save? Is this what you meant?”

 _A hundred points go to the gentleman!_ Dean whoops good-naturedly. “But what am I protecting you from?” Sam asks. “After what you did for me against Tarasov I'd say you protect me and not the other way around.” He feels like they are moving in circles, scratching at the truth he wants but never grasping it fully.

 _Symbiosis, remember?_ Dean says. _Keeping you safe keeps me safe. There are others like me and some of them would love to get their dirty fucking hands on me._

“Others like-”

_Demons._

The room is so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. Even Dean remains quiet, waiting for a reaction. There's none, however, as Sam stares with widened eyes moving from one distant point in the darkness to the next, mouth opening and closing like the fish he's just been compared to.

With a nervous laugh Dean pulls him back into the presence. _Guess I broke him._

Actually, for the second time that night, Sam can't decide if he wants to laugh, yell, cry or break something. The whole situation just got so much more surreal that blackness begins to spread before his eyes, shaping and reshaping like the bubbles in a lava-lamp. _Oi, kiddo, no checking out on me. Take a deep breath, come on!_

Doing just that, Sam feels his heart beating against his ribcage like it wants so bruise his skin from the inside. “You're a demon” he repeats, “from hell. Like – like demons in the Bible, serving the devil, torturing people.” Sam releases the breath he's holding. “You're _evil_.”

Dean makes a fond sound. _Aw, Sammy! You devil, you – pun not intended. Don't sweet-talk me too much though it's actually really-_

Hastily, Sam scrabbles backwards until his back hits the headboard, pressing his shoulders painfully into the rough wood. It is a futile endeavour, he knows that rationally – one cannot escape what is in one's head – but he needs the illusion of being able to distance himself.

“You're a _monster_!”

_Well, I wouldn't generalise-_

“Get out of my head! Now! Leave me alone!” Following an impulse, Sam grabs his alarm clock and throws it against the wall. It's pointless, he feels trapped.

 _Boy, calm down!_ Dean raises his voice but Sam barely hears him as he's too busy picking up the half-full cup of coffee from the floor beside his bed and hurling it against the wall as well. _Hey, you done overreacting now?_

Sam bares his teeth, yelling. “Get out, get out of my head, you son of a bitch!” Panic pulses through his blood and the dark spots before his eyes begin to expand. Trying to get up, Sam falls face first to the floor with his feet tangled in the sheets. Dean keeps talking though his words fall on deaf ears – something about how the situation is not in need of bringing his mother into this – explaining, trying and sounding increasingly exasperated. _Okay, stop now._

Immediately, Sam's body locks up which is rather inconvenient – he's still head first on the floor while his knees balance on the edge of the mattress. _Stop or you're going to hurt yourself and we can't have that, can we?_

Slowly, Sam's arms push his torso up so he's no longer in contact with the cold, hard floor, making him sit on the bed with his legs dangling off like a normal human being. It's doing this on its own no matter how much Sam tries to lift his arms, push off the bed and run. The immobilised limbs start to quiver from the strain he puts on them with his mind, however, they do not move an inch. Tears of despair and anger begin to form in his eyes from having to suffer once again through the humiliating experience of not being the master of his own body. It's the same as back then when he tried to kill himself, still remembers this feeling. And it scares him.

“Let me go.” It's a weak whimpering sound, embarrassingly so. Sam's voice is still boyish although so much deeper than back then. It makes him feel even worse that, even if he's grown bigger, stronger, almost into a man, Dean's able to tie him down so easily. He stands no chance. “Please, let me go.”

_Promise me you stay calm and I will._

Sam hums in agreement – he can't nod his head as it is also held immobile by Dean's power – and tries to ease the tension he feels all over.

 _Before I let you go_ Dean adds, obviously trying for a calming tone, _lemme tell you that I mean you no harm. I've been with you for a long time and I never took advantage of you. You know that, don't you?_ When there's no response from Sam, he repeats himself. _You do, don't you? Sammy?_

“Yes.”

_I never took control over your body unless it was inevitable. For your own good._

The raspy calmness of Dean's voice is rather hypnotic. Sam feels almost angry at himself but it slowly and steadily quiets the storm in his thoughts down.

“Yes.”

_And that's all that ever will be there. I want you to be happy in our arrangement, Sammy, safe'n'sound. I neither want yer body nor your soul. All I want is to stay and for you to trust me, it won't be to your disadvantage._

Sounding almost pleading, Sam considers Dean's words. A demon. In his head. Who's been there since god knows when. Lurking in the background of his mind while other vile things hunt for him. A cold chill runs down his spine but he cannot help acknowledging that Dean speaks the truth. He's never taken advantage of Sam's body or mind. Hell, he hadn't even really noticed him being there until yesterday. Sure, there'd been that one time when Sam had bent bitterly under his sadness and Dean had spoken to him – but even back then, Sam had considered it a product of his own overwhelmed mind, the phantom of a breakdown. Dean had protected him from doing something stupid to himself. His mind moves even further back in time, when he was so young that he called every friendly woman he met 'mommy', causing his father some great deal of embarrassment.

“That was you.” Sam whispers, remembering days when his father yelled, came back home drunk, disappeared and left Sam alone at home until he cried from hunger. “When I was little. Back then I often had the feeling that somebody was watching me. When I'd watch TV it felt like someone was sitting next to me on the couch and it crept me out so much. When I was upset or cried, there would sometimes be this...sensation. Touching my hair. Patting my back. That was _you_.”

 _Your personal demon godmother._ Dean sounds amused and a bit sheepish saying it.

Sam stares into space, trying to process all the information and revelations of the past half our. The boy who left the house yesterday morning – there's an abyss of differences between that poor, innocent fellow and the stunned fifteen-year-old sitting awake on his bed and talking to a demon called Dean who lives in his head. _Possessing_ him, that's the proper term for all this, what Dean tried to explain to him. Dean's possessing Sam in the widest sense. How he can think all of this without being in hysterics, he doesn't know. Maybe because the events of yesterday convinced him that there's something bigger going on than just him losing his mind. It's too much, though.

“I'm totally buggered.” he slurs as all the energy seems to leave his body at once. He doesn't want to sleep though, wants to stay awake and ask more questions. Dean has a lot of explaining to do and if Sam had his will, he'd start talking right now – a demon confession. But there's just so much a human mind can accept before it needs a shut-down for a while. Sam rolls to the side, pulling the blanket over himself and doesn't care the slightest bit that he's still wearing the dirty, bloody clothes he put on for school yesterday morning.

 _Get some_ beauty _sleep, kiddo. I'll still be here tomorrow._

Sam smiles a bit, he can't help it. “You promise?”

_Demons don't do promises._

Sam feels drowsy and warm, almost sedated. It probably shows in his dopey smile as it widens. “Promise, Demon Dean.” he mumbles.

 _Yeah, 'kay, I promise. Now sleep, you pest._ It sounds fond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every hit, comment and kudo is greatly appreciated! :)


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